


Winter's Bite

by Neyasochi



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chef Shiro, Farmer Keith (Voltron), Fluff, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29075478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyasochi/pseuds/Neyasochi
Summary: Keith has been supplying the White Lion’s kitchen with farm-fresh produce ever since it opened just over a year ago; he’s been nursing a crush on the farm-to-table restaurant’s charming chef, Shiro, for nearly as long.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 198
Collections: Sheith Cookbook





	Winter's Bite

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for All Good Things: A Sheith Cookbook!

“I’m guessing those are for the White Lion?”

Keith glances up from the crate he’s carefully packing with picture-perfect heads of cabbage, pristine kabocha squash, and painstakingly selected root vegetables. “Uh. Yeah.”

His mother’s eyebrow gives a little lift as she looks over the rest of the crates Keith has readied for delivery—all of them prepared with care, but none shown half as much love as the batch destined for Shiro’s restaurant. It’s not the first time she’s given Keith that knowing look, quietly surmising his intentions.

She’s all fond teasing as she murmurs, “Hopefully none of our other customers ever realize you’re playing favorites with their produce.”

Warmth rushes to Keith’s cheeks. “I’m not.”

But he _is_. Absolutely. They’ve been supplying the White Lion’s kitchen ever since its opening just over a year ago, and Keith has been nursing a crush on its chef for nearly as long.

Because Shiro is…

Handsome, like he just stepped out of a magazine spread on buff chefs who do modeling on the side. And kind. He has a dry sense of humor and a smile that makes Keith feel as warm and full as a good meal. He loves giving Kosmo treats and ear-scratches. Once or twice a week, he even boxes up a few dishes for Keith to bring home to his family, all as delicious as they are beautifully made.

Keith’s thin mouth pulls down into a scowl as he resumes neatly stacking potatoes, onions, and long, fat daikon radishes into the crate. Atop them, he arranges burdock root and leafy greens—kale, sorrel, cress—until they make a perfect display.

“Here, don’t forget these,” Krolia says, crouching as she passes him a cardboard carton of two dozen fresh, brown-speckled eggs.

Keith carefully fits them in and then hauls Shiro’s crate out to their compact little delivery truck, tucking it away at the very back. His dad jogs over from the greenhouse to help load up the rest of the deliveries, whistling through his teeth at the predawn chill of oncoming winter.

Kosmo sprints gleeful circles around them as they trek in and out of the farmhouse, ears twitching every time the neighbors’ dairy cows low. The cool, damp air stings with every gust, leaving Keith’s nose red and runny by the time they’re done.

“They said the worst of the weather ought to miss us, but I don’t like the look of those clouds,” his dad says, his brow furrowed. He ruffles a hand through Keith’s hair and then stoops to do the same to Kosmo. “So hurry back, all right? And be safe.”

The sky is still dark as Keith rolls down the farm’s long, winding driveway, Kosmo curled up in the seat beside him. The truck’s heater struggles to push out the cold, and slick patches of nighttime ice still dot the paved roads that carry them toward the city proper.

Keith has a dozen deliveries to make all across town, starting with several niche bakeries and ending with the White Lion. And it’s just after dropping off a crate of eggs and fresh fruit at Hunk’s renowned patisserie that the sky above darkens, rumbles, and drops a torrent of freezing rain down upon the city.

It falls deafeningly around Keith, landing slushy across the windshield and coating the roads in slippery, quick-freezing ice. But Keith only has three deliveries left, and few other options. A glance at his weather app shows the storm’s blown further south than expected, likely to linger for hours, and it’s not like turning around and making the long drive home will be any safer.

Even with the thinning traffic, navigating the streets is painfully slow going. The traffic lights are little more than blinks of color amid sheets of sleet and freezing rain. The lines on the road ahead disappear under slush. At each delivery stop, knife-like fingers of cold slip through the seams of Keith’s jacket and icy rain finds its way under his hood, into his hair, and drips down his shivering spine.

By the time Keith parks beside the White Lion, he can scarcely see any of the restaurant’s charming features: those stout, square beams of aged wood; the lanterns hanging from the eaves, dim as fireflies within the haze of frosty sleet; the white inlay of a roaring lion over its doors.

Keith sighs and pulls his hood up once again, despite already being thoroughly soaked.

As soon as he opens the door and clambers out, he’s nearly bowled over as Kosmo barrels out after him, unwilling to pass up any chance at getting a treat from Shiro—stormy weather be damned.

Sleet pelts Keith every step of the way, piling on his shoulders as he pulls Shiro’s crate from the very back of the truck and lugs it to the restaurant’s door. A shivering Kosmo sits dutifully beside him, fur all wet and matted, as Keith raps the door with a trembling hand.

A few long moments trickle by before the door slides open, jingling a set of chimes.

And there stands Shiro, disarmingly handsome in his softspun apron, eyes wide as he stares down at the two figures shivering on his restaurant’s doorstep.

“Keith! I didn’t think you’d still—fuck, you must be freezing. Get in here,” Shiro says, stepping aside and ushering them both in. “Do you want to take off your boots?” he adds, grimacing as Keith squelches with every step.

“I…yeah,” Keith says, toes curling in his wet socks. “It, uh, started raining. And sleeting.”

“I noticed,” Shiro comments, a sympathetic smile on his lips as he lifts the crate out of Keith’s arms and carries it to the kitchen.

Keith wrings his trembling hands, well aware that Shiro’s delivery is the latest it’s ever been. Guilt licks at him for always making Shiro his last stop—selfishly, so he has a few extra minutes to linger—and now there’s barely an hour to spare before the restaurant opens for lunch.

Though...it doesn’t exactly look ready for customers, and there’s no sign of Allura or Coran bustling around to prepare for service. The dining room sits dark and empty, its tables bare. A few lanterns near the entry give off just enough of a warm, suffused glow to see by. Only the kitchen is well-lit, its fluorescent bulbs burning brighter for lack of the usual natural light.

And it’s still beautiful, like this.

Keith has loved this place from the first moment he stepped inside, gawking at the wooden beam-crossed ceilings and sleek floors. Over the past year, Shiro has padded out the minimal aesthetic with meaningful personal touches—framed photos of his grandparents, pieces from local artists, and enough potted plants to rival a greenhouse. An old-fashioned wood-burning stove sits on the far side of the restaurant, split firewood stacked neatly beside it. It feels like a _home,_ almost.

Keith keeps a close eye on Kosmo as he sniffs at the white orchids by the door, remembering all too well the time his dog devoured one of Shiro’s favorite maidenhair ferns and then puked across the nice hardwood floor.

“Sorry for dripping all over everything,” Keith blurts as soon as Shiro returns from the kitchen, keenly aware of the growing puddle at his feet.

“You don’t have to apologize, Keith. It’s not even a problem, re—”

Shiro’s face scrunches tight as Kosmo gives a sudden, hearty shake, flinging droplets of icy water all over the both of them.

Keith quails. “Shiro, I…I am _so_ sorry—”

But Shiro only laughs as he lifts the hem of his apron up to wipe his face dry. “It’s fine, Keith.”

“Why do you even let us in here anymore, honestly?” Keith asks, as exasperated with Kosmo as he is with himself.

“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro assures, pulling off his apron and tossing it into a hamper for dirtied linens and hand towels. “I mean it. Kosmo knows he can make himself at home here, right?”

In answer, Kosmo noses Shiro’s prosthetic hand and swishes his tail, sending more rainwater flying.

“You’re too nice, Shiro. And, uh…hopefully some of the extras in your delivery make up for it getting here late,” Keith sighs, reaching behind himself for the door.

“ _Late?_ In this weather? Keith, I’m just relieved you got here safely,” Shiro says, tone a measured mix of stern and soft. “And I’d be an asshole if I even let you _think_ about going back out there. Wait it out here. We can even hang your clothes by the stove to dry, if you want.”

“I’d like that,” Keith admits, voice barely more than a croak. “But what if customers come in?”

Shiro glances out the nearest window, at the greyed-out blur of bone-chilling rain and roads slick with dark ice. “Uh…they won’t. I just finished rescheduling today’s reservations and I already gave Allura and Coran the day off.”

Keith’s stomach flutters. It’ll just be the two of them, then. And Kosmo.

“I have some spare gym clothes in my office,” Shiro adds, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb, “if you want to change. They, uh, might be a little big on you, though.”

Keith can only snort out a laugh as he sets his soggy boots by the door and strips off his soaked outerwear. Of course they’ll be big—Shiro is at least half a foot taller than him and twice as broad. “So long as they’re dry, I don’t mind.”

While Shiro hangs his sweater and socks on the back of a chair by the wood-burning stove, Keith pads back to the White Lion’s office, shivering.

It’s small and cramped, though neatly organized. A cup of coffee sits cold and half-finished beside a sleeping laptop, with Shiro’s gym duffel resting by the door.

Keith shucks off the rest of his wet clothes, teeth chattering as cool air hits his bare skin, and hastily slips a dark, long-sleeved running tee over his head. It’s unsurprisingly roomy in the shoulders; the hem hangs down past his hips, brushing mid-thigh. After, he wriggles into Shiro’s charcoal-grey compression tights, surprised at how nicely they fit.

They must be _awfully_ tight on Shiro, though.

That thought haunts Keith as he slides on a pair of slippers sitting by the desk—oversized on his narrow feet, but plush enough to make up for it—and returns to the dining room with a bundle of damp clothes in his arms.

Kosmo’s tail swishes where he lay sprawled out in front of the wood-burning stove, basking in its heat. His dog lets out a soft snore, and that’s all the acknowledgement Keith gets as he hangs up the rest of his clothes to dry.

“I borrowed your slippers, too,” Keith tells Shiro as he perches on one of the barstools along the counter that peers in on the kitchen, now only shivering on occasion. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” Shiro answers. He’s already in a new apron—one speckled with an unseasonable cherry blossom pattern and a plump white rabbit peeking out from the front pocket—and washing up in the oversized sink. “Make yourself at home. Kosmo sure has.”

Keith glances down at Kosmo, paws twitching as he dreams and muffled little barks bubbling out from his fuzzy lips. His fur is still damp, but the warmth radiating from the stove is working wonders.

There’s a clatter from the kitchen as Shiro opens up the crate of produce from the farm, barely audible amid the persistent, muted thrum of ice and water pelting the roof. Behind Keith, burning wood pops and crackles in the belly of the stove.

“Keith, this is too much!” Shiro cries out, rising up with heads of lettuce and bunches of sorrel gently cradled in his impressive arms. He lays them out on the countertop and ducks back down, fishing up all the extra treats Keith had tucked in along with his usual order. “That’s _a lot_ of matsutake. Ooh, and more chestnuts? And fresh burdock root, too! I thought last week was the last of the crop?”

Keith shrugs. “I dug up a little extra.”

Shiro lifts a fat radish up to his nose and gives it a sniff, grinning. “Mm. This is going to pickle great.”

“Yeah?”

Shiro nods, his silvery eyes bright with excitement despite the restaurant’s dim half-lighting. “If you’re hungry, I could whip something up for an early lunch.”

It’s barely ten-thirty in the morning, but still tempting. Keith’s been up and working since five a.m., and he’s always hungry for Shiro’s cooking.

“I’d never say no to an offer like that.”

Shiro’s smile spreads a hair wider. “You can have your pick of the menu. Name it and I’ll make it.”

“Uh…” Keith grabs one of Shiro’s recent menus and skims through the options. They’re all seasonal, all locally sourced, all perfectly tailored to an afternoon in a cozy restaurant while the world outside freezes over.

He can’t possibly choose.

“Why don’t you do something _you’d_ like?” Keith suggests instead. “Surprise me. I’ll love anything you make.”

Shiro blinks, dark lashes full frame for wide, cloudy-grey eyes. “If you say so, Keith,” he almost laughs, grinning to himself as he reaches for pots and pans and glinting knives.

It’s the first time Keith’s ever been able to lounge around and watch Shiro work, neither of them worried about kitchen prep or farm chores. And he tries his level best not to outright stare, but…

But it’s hard when Shiro is so handsome from every angle—a well-cut jaw, full lips, cheekbones that Keith has tried and failed to replicate with pencil and paper. The sheer breadth of his frame doesn’t hurt, either. And that slight dimpling around his smile...

Smalltalk isn’t Keith’s forte, but it’s easy to forget that around Shiro. They talk about the dreary weather, the last harvest of fall, and the upcoming Geminids.

“I used to watch meteor showers all the time with my grandparents,” Shiro says, his hands moving with artful precision as he minces garlic and chops onion. “It’s a little harder now, living in such a big city.”

“You could always come out to our place. Can’t beat the view for anything,” Keith says, heart already skipping to the thought of a late-night with Shiro, bundled up under a clear autumn sky while they watch the stars.

“If your parents don’t mind,” Shiro says, as if Keith’s parents don’t have a soft spot for him that rivals their son’s. He works right through the pungent sting of freshly chopped onion, his damp lashes faintly glimmering. “I’d love to.”

“Are you kidding? They’re huge fans of yours,” Keith tells him—and it’s true, from his cooking to his personality. “And so is Kosmo. And me, too, obviously. So…you’d be very welcome, anytime.”

“Oh? Good to know.”

The hint of color on Shiro’s cheeks reminds Keith of ripe white peaches—the kind Shiro buys from their farm by the crate in summer, turning them into sweet jams and tarts and homemade ice cream. It looks good on him, of course. Keith doubts there’s a shade in all of creation that _doesn’t._

The thought makes Keith squirm on his seat, toes curling in his borrowed slippers. It’s his first time actually hanging out with Shiro off-the-clock, and he looks like he just washed ashore half-drowned. His hair is still damp at the ends, clinging coldly to whatever skin it touches; the collar of Shiro’s spare shirt hangs low and loose around the dip of Keith’s clavicle. His face is no doubt wind-chafed, nose and cheeks bright from the biting chill.

And Shiro must notice it all, given how often he shoots glances Keith’s way—quick, fleeting things that would be easily missed if Keith weren’t so wholly focused on him.

“So, what are you making?” Keith asks, semi-entranced by the smooth, precise twists of Shiro’s hands as he makes spiraled ribbons from potato peels with just a small paring knife.

“Korokke,” Shiro says, swiftly chopping the potatoes and dumping them into a pot of boiling water. “I used to help my mom make them all the time. Although…in hindsight, I probably wasn’t all that helpful,” he adds, playfully wrinkling his nose.

“I bet you were good for morale, though,” Keith says as Shiro unwraps the butcher’s paper from a pound of raw, red freshly ground beef and lights another eye on the stove. “That’s what my dad used to say when I’d insist on making a mess in the kitchen while he cooked.”

Shiro’s laugh is soft as falling snowflakes; every breath of it makes warmth bloom under Keith’s skin.

And in the middle of fondly recalling those childhood afternoons spent making macaroni art and dough animals on the kitchen floor, both of his parents gingerly stepping around him, Keith abruptly startles where he sits and fumbles for his phone.

_His parents._ He should’ve texted them as soon as he got here—and _would_ have, if he hadn’t been so hopelessly distracted by Shiro.

Keith blanches at the screen, quietly aghast at the eight missed calls and all-caps texts. Under the counter, he shoots off a hasty reply, assuring his mom and dad that he’s safely waiting out the storm with Shiro. He pockets the phone before they even have a chance to text back, uncertain which would be worse: a round of reaming for leaving them to worry, or them teaming up to rib him about being hunkered down with his longtime crush.

“Anything wrong?” said crush asks, steam billowing around his concerned face as he drains the boiled potatoes.

“No. Nothing.” Keith leans forward and watches Shiro mash the potatoes until they’re fluffy-smooth; then the rest of the ingredients go in, stirred until they’re evenly mixed. “I probably should’ve asked earlier, but is there anything I can do to help?

“Nah. I’m cooking _for_ you, remember?” Shiro says, cheeks still flushed with color from the rising steam. His eyes linger on Keith as he deftly shapes each handful of the potato mixture into a ball. “Tell me about your day. Before the obvious happened, I mean,” he adds, nodding at the torrents pouring outside the nearby window.

Keith’s gaze follows, drifting out into the freezing downpour.

The world out there is grey and hazy, pierced only occasionally by the faint glow of passing headlights. Gusts of wind whip the rain and sleet into heavy sheets that strike against the restaurant’s wooden walls like towering sea waves breaking on the shore. And but for Shiro’s hospitality, Keith might well be out there in the thick of it—one of those few, poor souls still crawling home through roadways turned slick with ice and rain and slush.

“Ah, just the usual,” Keith sighs, stomach giving a gurgle as Shiro starts gently lowering panko-coated potato balls into a tall-sided pot of sizzling oil. “Fed chickens, gathered eggs, fixed irrigation lines, packed orders. It’s not exactly compelling stuff. It probably isn’t even worth mention—”

“It is to me,” Shiro interrupts, glancing up from the frying korokke he’s been dutifully tending, long chopsticks still perfectly poised between the beautifully articulated joints of his prosthetic fingers. “Keith. I couldn’t make a single dish without you and your family and everything you do.”

Keith swallows, taken aback by Shiro’s sincerity. “You could always get your eggs and produce from the market instead,” he halfway teases.

“No.” Shiro’s nose scrunches. “Lacks a personal touch. I like to know where my food comes from. And who’s responsible for it.”

“You could buy from another farm—”

“Never,” Shiro says, absolutely final. “And give up all the extras you put in my deliveries? And visits from you and Kosmo? No way.”

Keith smiles, small and halfway hidden by the turn of his head, his crossed arms weaving a little tighter around himself.

Wisps of white hair fall across Shiro’s brow as he plates their lunch, as dedicated to a pleasing presentation as he would be for any paying customer. Then he rounds his way out of the kitchen with two bowls balanced on one arm, a pitcher of water in hand, two glasses pressed to his side, and a bottle of tonkatsu sauce tucked under his chin.

Shiro makes it a whole two steps into the dining room before he wobbles. “Oh. Uh-oh.”

“You could’ve asked for help,” Keith chides, already slipping from the barstool and hurrying to his rescue.

They stop at the nearest table, right beside a dark window gone foggy and frosted around the edges.

The seating is closer than Keith anticipated. More intimate. There’s barely enough table between them to keep their legs from knocking together underneath it as they settle in. There’s hardly anywhere to look that isn’t _Shiro_ —all six-foot-four of him, broad-shouldered and square-jawed and right within reach.

Warm up to the tips of his ears, Keith drops his gaze to the bowl before him, where his korokke rest atop a generous bed of crisp, thin-sliced cabbage.

“Thanks, Shiro,” he exhales just before his first bite, hunger striking as hard and swift as the storm currently bearing down on them.

Keith’s teeth break through the crispy outer coating of panko and into the fluffy, almost-creamy filling of potato, vegetables, and minced beef. There’s just enough salt to it, along with a mild sweetness from the farm-fresh onion and carrot. A little trickle of steam curls against the roof of his mouth, the korokke warming him all the way through the moment it settles in his belly.

“Wow,” Keith manages, already diving in for another bite as he reaches for the tonkatsu sauce. “Shiro, this is great.”

“Great ingredients make great food,” Shiro says, as if he played no part in turning Keith’s carefully-picked produce into a dish as warm and inviting as he is.

“I’d say a talented chef certainly helps,” Keith murmurs, eyeing Shiro over the rim of his glass as he pauses for a drink.

It’s Shiro who looks away first, into his own half-eaten bowl. This time, the deep pink across his cheeks is unmistakable, even in the dining room’s dim, firefly-golden light.

“Thanks, Keith,” he says, picking distractedly through shreds of cabbage. “You—I’m glad you like it. I’m always flattered whenever you like my cooking.”

“Which is all the time,” Keith reminds him, smiling as he crams half of a korokke into his mouth.

Shiro’s laugh is nearly drowned out by another hard gust of wind and sleet and rain. With a sigh, he looks out the window, then down at his phone, and then to Keith. “Uh, so…bad news about the weather. It’s not going anywhere.”

“I was starting to get that impression,” Keith says, eyeing the pellets of sleet building up the window sill.

“You’re welcome to stay here as long as it takes to blow over,” Shiro says, still poking around his half-finished bowl. “There’s a beanbag in the office that’s nice for naps.”

There’s a pause, both of them chewing, before Shiro clears his throat.

“Or…we could, uh, try making a run to my apartment, if the storm lets up just a little. If you want. It’s only a couple blocks away. And it’d be more comfortable for the night. I mean, that ice isn’t melting until tomorrow.”

Spending the night at Shiro’s apartment? Any chill still clinging to Keith fades as quickly as spring, replaced by a heady warmth that suffuses him from the cowlick at the crown of his head down to the tips of his toes. He has to take a sip of water.

“We’d still be soaked by the time we made it to your place,” Keith thinks aloud, hoping his voice doesn’t sound too thin with nerves, too husky from longing. “You’re not going to mind Kosmo shaking himself dry all over your apartment, too?”

Kosmo stirs at the sound of his name, tail thumping against the floor.

Shiro’s eyes sparkle in the low lantern light. He smiles around his last bite of korokke. “Not at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me here [on twitter!](https://twitter.com/saltisochi)


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